


Neatly Pressed

by Ewebie



Series: Guess My Race Is Run [9]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anthea is just the coolest... She ships it., I was attacked by a plot bunny!, M/M, Sherlock is a dick... but for a good reason, Sorry Not Sorry, These two idiots don't talk to each other, This is no one's fault but my own..., You didn't know you wanted this... I didn't know I needed this, locked in a closet, mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-08
Updated: 2020-03-08
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:40:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23071849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ewebie/pseuds/Ewebie
Summary: You can’t DO THAT, Mycroft!”“I think, Detective Inspector, you’ll find that I can.”“This is my case! It’s my job! I’ve been working on this for weeks!”“And now it is time to let the professionals take over.”
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Series: Guess My Race Is Run [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/877377
Comments: 36
Kudos: 301





	Neatly Pressed

“You can’t  _ DO THAT _ , Mycroft!”

“I think, Detective Inspector, you’ll find that I can.”

“This is my case! It’s my  _ job _ ! I’ve been working on this for weeks!”

“And now it is time to let the professionals take over.”

“Professionals?!”

“If you would be so kind as to turn over your files.”

Greg moved, placing himself between Mycroft and the small filing press. “Over my dead body.”

“That will be entirely unnecessary.”

“No. What’s unnecessary is you barging in here, government acronyms flying, and forcing me off my case!” Greg crossed his arms. “Again, I might add.”

“If you would simply-”

“Don’t simply me! I know your team got nowhere with the Atherton case. And now I can’t get back on it, and I was so close! So close!”

“Your team was floundering.”

“Yeah, and what’s your team doing now? Hm?” Both of his brows went up in mock question.

Mycroft released a long breath that bordered on a sigh. “This is completely ridiculous.” He stood and closed the distance between them. “If you would surrender the files-”

“No.”

“Detective Inspector-”

“No.”

“I would rather not ask Anthea to-”

“You invoke her name one more time in this office-”

“If you would just-” Mycroft reached past him to the knob and twisted the press open.

“Oi! I said-” Greg pressed a hand against his chest holding him back.

“This is childish and I rather insist-” Mycroft leaned back, Tugging the door open.

“Knock it off!” Greg turned to lean his shoulder against the door, force it closed with his own weight, but missed and tumbled into the open space. His shoulder and hip impacted painfully against the shelves and his cheek bounced off a stack of files that might have cut him if he’d bothered to check. He let out a cuss. 

“Oh.” Mycroft had the decency to look surprised and released the door, offering his hand. But his expression flashed startled as his back arched unnaturally and he was propelled into the press and rather on top of Greg in an ungainly sprawl.

Sherlock. Greg had seen him. Just a glimpse of his face over Mycroft’s shoulder. Hell, Greg had called him about the case three hours ago. Absolute worst timing. Then the door swung shut. No. And the lock turned… “No!” Greg was up in a flash, shoving Mycroft out of the way in the narrow space. “No. Sherlock!” He pounded his fist into the door. “Sherlock! Open the door!”

“Dealing with the pair of you is tedious. Sort yourselves out.”

“Sherlock!” His open palm slapped the wood. “Don’t!”

“Toodles.”

“No!” There wasn’t the space to throw his shoulder into the door, but he tried anyway. “No, no, no.” The door didn’t budge, but the light filtering in from the crack at the floor disappeared and the darkness was all encompassing. Distantly, he heard his office door open and close. He was going to kill him. He would wring his neck. “Sherlock! NO!” He just needed to get out of here first. He heaved a breath. He needed to get out. It was too small of a space. There wasn’t enough air. He needed to get out now. Oh god. Out. He felt along the frame until he found the lock, but no handle. “Fuck. N-no.” There was no handle. He didn’t have the key. He couldn’t see anything.

“Lestrade.”

He startled as a hand settled gently on his shoulder, and in his panic, he nearly clocked Mycroft with his elbow. “Christ!” He’d forgotten he was even there. In this incredibly small space. That was two people consuming the air. Jesus, they needed to get out.

A second hand unerringly found his other shoulder, resting calmly. “Breathe.”

“You breathe!” he snapped. Breathe? Fuck breathe. They were going to suffocate. In the dark. In this fucking press. He gulped a breath and pressed against the door again.

“You are not breathing.” Mycroft’s voice was low and patient. “There is plenty of air. There is plenty of space in here. But you are hyperventilating.”

Greg closed his eyes and let out sharp snort. What was it about thinking about breathing that made it go all wonky? The edge of Mycroft’s jacket brushed his hip in a slow, steady rhythm and it took far too long for him to cop that it was moving with Mycroft, a gentle rock with the breath that was whispering across the back of his neck.

Distance. That was as far away as Mycroft could be in this absurdly small cupboard and it was still close enough to feel him. It was almost dizzying. Or that was the hyperventilation. Probably. He rested his forehead against the cool wood and tried to match Mycroft. In and out. Metronomic. Just breathing. In and out. In and out. Calming. Greg swallowed. “I’m going to kill him.”

Mycroft hummed with amusement. “I’m afraid you’ll find competition.”

“Fratricide is more frowned on than a straightforward revenge killing. Less of a sentence for me.”

“Then I insist you allow me to help hide the body.”

“No body, no crime.”

“It would take Sherlock Holmes to solve it.”

Greg huffed out a laugh at the humor lacing Mycroft’s words. “Hafta get outta here first.”

“Mmn.” The hands left his shoulders, the illusion of propriety and distance returning. “I suspect it will be two hours before that’s possible.”

“T-two hours?” He winced. “Fuck. Are you sure?”

“There are a number variables that might alter the duration, though I am quite certain they are all, unfortunately, inaccessible. For example. Your mobile?”

Greg thunked his forehead against the door. “In my jacket on the back of my chair. Yours?”

“Regrettably, in my coat. Also on the other side of this door. Other members of your team?”

“Gone home,” he groaned, shifting cautiously and putting his back to the door. “No one would just wander into my office when it’s closed up anyway. What about you? Your PA?”

Mycroft made an odd sound, as if he were trying not to grind his teeth. “I sent her home for the evening, as I was reasonably confident I could manage this task on my own.”

“Handle me, you mean.”

“I said no such thing.”

“It’s implied,” he grumbled.

Mycroft sighed. “I don’t… ‘handle’ you. It was assumed we have a decent working and professional relationship and that you would not be so bull headed as to refuse-”

“Bull headed?!”

“Please, Gregory. This is a very small space, there’s no need to shout.”

“Oh, I haven’t started shouting!”

“This is ridiculous.”

“You know what’s ridiculous? You. You and your brother.”

“I would appreciate not being classified in the same manner as my brother.”

“Yeah, I bet.” Greg finally gave in and covered his face with his hands. It was too dark to see anyway. And blindly glaring into the pitchblack was disconcerting.

“For one, I would never stoop so low as to play upon known phobias to force a misguided and uncomfortable truth.”

“English, yeah?”

“You are claustrophobic.”

He swallowed and nodded. It didn’t surprise him to hear it from Mycroft. The man knew everything at a glance and had incomprehensible reach to back up that information with classified data and sealed records. There was probably some scribble in the margin of one of his old therapists saying something about it. Or when he’d had to get clearance to come back after that one case… “Not like I told him.”

“I assure you, Sherlock is well aware of your fears. Just as much as he is of mine.”

Anger? Was that anger? For a moment, Greg wished he could see Mycroft’s face. Then again, he was so practiced at stone-facing every moment of the day, it wasn’t really likely he’d have any better insight. “Yours?”

Mycroft cleared his throat. “I am… grossly uncomfortable with sensory deprivation.”

“Sensory deprivation,” he repeated, rolling the thought around in his head. “The… The dark?”

“It is much beyond the dark. Once when… There was a time that… Depriving a person of more than one of their senses would be considered in breach of the Fourth Geneva Convention.”

“Ah.” Ok. Mycroft… wasn’t exactly afraid of the dark, but he didn’t like not being able to see. He’d been… Blindfolded before. And… Tortured? Greg didn’t like where his mind was going with that train of thought. “Right. So…”

Mycroft hummed in agreement of some sort.

“Then he’s torturing us both and I’m still going to kill him.”

“In another hour and fifty minutes.”

“Gives me time to plan.” He rolled his shoulder where it was starting to bruise. Stupid cramped press. “You’re security services. Don’t bother with the denial. I know you are… Transportation my arse. Don’t you have some sort of panic button?”

Greg thought he might be able to hear the eyebrow go up. “I have two, as a matter of fact. One is outside of this cupboard. The other remains on my person.”

“So…”

“Activating it would bring armed response.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“Into the Met.”

“Ah.”

“Not particularly ideal.”

“No.” He sighed. “And I’m guessing you don’t carry around an illegal set of lockpicks like your brother?”

“I do not.”

“Shame.”

“Isn’t it though.”

“I’m just…” He grumbled. “I’m trying…”

“I know.”

It fell silent. Without anything to see, Greg felt like his ears were straining for sounds. For any information in the darkness. And beyond the sound of his own blood rushing in his ears and his breathing, there wasn’t a peep. Actually, his own breathing was starting to sound a bit fast again. “Mycroft?” God that was loud.

“Hmn?”

“Why two hours? What happens in two hours?”

“One hour and forty-eight minutes.”

“Yeah.” He shoved his hands in his pockets to keep his fingers from shaking. “What then?”

“I rather suspect two hours is the maximum amount of time that Sherlock can put Dr. Watson off from realising what he’s done, and Dr. Watson insists on releasing us.”

“Oh. Right.”

“Previously, I would have thought no more than an hour, but Sherlock has become rather skilled at distracting the good doctor.”

“Oh. Ooh,” Greg coughed. “God, no. Thanks. Didn’t need to be thinking about that.”

“As if I derive pleasure from the same.”

When it felt as though they would lapse into silence again, Greg cleared his throat nervously. “What did he mean then?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Sherlock. You know him better than me. What did he mean?”

“Unfortunately, I believe you’re incorrect.” Mycroft shifted, his clothes brushing against papers nearby. He wasn’t far away. Maybe a foot and a half. Leaning against the shelves? “You know my brother better than I.”

Greg snorted. “Doubt there’s anything I know better than you.”

“You do yourself a disservice.”

“Nah. You’re trying to butter me up. Good for my bruised ego, but kinda pointless.”

“Nonetheless.”

“Well fine. What do you think he meant?”

“By?”

“With what he said?”

“And what did he say?”

Greg frowned. “When he locked the door.”

“I’m afraid I was distracted, finding myself in a pile of papers and you rather noisily pounding on the door. I didn’t hear what was said.”

“Erm. He said we were both tedious. And to sort ourselves out.”

“Oh.” It was less a word than a soft exhalation. And Mycroft fell still again.

For a moment, it was like being plunged underwater. Dark and quiet and suffocating. “M-mycroft?”

“Yes?”

“Sorry. I…” He let out a heavy breath. “Freaks me out when I can’t hear you.”

“Ah.” A warm hand stroked down his arm to close gently around his wrist. “I’m afraid there is nowhere for me to go at present.”

“Y-yeah. I know. Just…” He hissed as his hip twinged.

“Are you alright?”

“Yeah. Just smashed my hip when I fell in here, didn’t I. It’d have to be that one. And it’s… It’s roasting in here and standing is just…”

“Would you like to sit?”

He snorted. “Don’t think there’s really room for that. Do you?”

“I believe if we’re careful.”

“Human tetris?”

“Of a sort.”

“Right. Ok. How is this going to-”

Mycroft pressed a hand to his sternum. “Sit.”

He could hear his own throat click as he swallowed. “Just like…”

“Keep your back to the door and go down.” The amusement in Mycroft’s voice was unmistakable, and he waited patiently while Greg managed the maneuver without incident. “Now. Keep still.”

He shouldn’t have been surprised, but even in the pitch black, Mycroft managed to sit across from him without a single collision, long legs folded so only their knees and calves brushed. It wasn’t exactly comfortable, but it was better than standing for another two hours. He was glad he wasn’t in his jacket and tie. He let his head fall back against the door with another thud. “How are you not roasting?”

“Roasting?”

“In your three-piece suit. It’s not exactly temperate in here.”

“Why, Detective Inspector, should I be worried by your attentions?”

“I bet you’re sweating.” He could see it actually. Mycroft, folded into the corner of the press, legs for days, but his hair curling just a bit out of spite. “Buttoned up too much.”

“Would you rather I be so much of a scoundrel as to not have a tie and jacket.”

“Scoundrel?” Greg grinned. “Hey now. I’m an officer of the law.”

“Who willingly cavorts with an agent of chaos,” Mycroft challenged. “And lounges about his office in a scandalous state of undress.”

Greg barked out a laugh. “Scandalous? Is that a knock at where I shop?”

“I would never be so crass.”

“Of course not.”

Another lull. Another moment for Greg’s brain to come up with all the ways they would suffocate and die in the small space. Mycroft’s ankle pressed purposefully against his and Greg felt the tension dissipate. He hadn’t even had to mention it. One more reason to keep adoring the man. Greg flushed, grateful for the dark for the first time.

“As much as it amuses me to slander your character, regretfully, you are correct.”

“Am I? What am I right about then?”

“I am afraid it is ‘roasting’ in this press.”

Greg chuckles. “You’re supposed to be clever. Take something off, you git.”

Mycroft sighed.

“I don’t know why you’re… Dithering.”

“Dithering?” There was laughter in his voice.

“It’s not like anyone will see you in such a state of… Scandalous undress,” Greg mocked.

Mycroft hummed in amusement. “Yes well… Close your eyes then.”

The smile that stretched across his face was so wide it nearly hurt. “They’re closed.”

“They are most certainly not.”

“Fine,” he closed his eyes. “Eyes closed. Your modesty is safe.”

“Thank you.”

He could hear the movement. The brush of fabric on fabric. Fabric on wood. And a muffled curse as something thunked against a box.

“Alright?”

“Fine. It is simply a tight space for wardrobe adjustments. I think if I only,” Mycroft trailed off from closer by. 

Higher up. Kneeling, Greg supposed. He’d have to get his back away from the wall to free his arms. And he would have to stretch his arm up… There was another thud and a crash. A yelp. And Greg grunted as the warm weight collided with him. He brought his hands up and managed to grab ahold of something. Arm? Maybe. “Jesus,” he muttered. “Are you ok?”

Papers settled somewhere behind Mycroft as he gathered himself in, trying to find a comfortable position. Sitting in Greg’s lap. “I… I believe so.”

Oh God. Oh God, oh god, oh god. Mycroft was in his lap. He was right there, in his lap. His face was only inches away. And his legs were folded, framing his hips. And if there were a fleck of light, he’d be able to see the furious red on Greg’s face. And he needed to figure out where to put his hands. Mycroft shifted and Greg closed his hands around the man’s hips in self preservation. He cleared his throat. “Found the wonky shelf then?”

Something of a laugh puffed out of Mycroft and Greg felt it along his cheek. “I believe my jacket is now beneath the better part of a decade of cold cases.”

“And,” Greg flicked his tongue across his lower lip out of habit. “I think you’ve lost your seat.” 

Mycroft froze. Greg could barely feel the breathing beneath his palms. Oh bollocks. Why did he say that? “Oh.” Oh? He could sense Mycroft trying to study him in the dark. He could probably glean more information, even without sight, than anyone else without the impediment of flying blind. And it made Greg sweat. Then Mycroft moved. Somehow. Greg couldn’t see. But he had the impression of an arm beside his ear. And he felt crowded. Which was ridiculous given the size of the press anyway. But when Mycroft spoke, it whispered across Greg’s lips and sent a shiver down his spine. “This seat is not terribly unpleasant, all things considered.”

Greg sucked in a breath, his fingers tightening against his better judgment. Mycroft was so close that Greg thought he might even taste him in the air. And if this wasn’t born of every filthy fantasy he’d had about Mycroft Holmes. He was half hard. Then Mycroft’s fingers fanned out over his sternum, palm pressing with enough weight that Greg was afraid to breathe. Then the fingers slowly closed, gathering the front of his shirt in, and he was done. A sound escaped high and tight from his throat. “Myc…”

The tug on his shirt was enough to tilt his face up as Mycroft leaned down. How he could possibly unerringly find Greg’s lips in the dark was a mystery, but it didn’t matter. Greg groaned into the kiss.

The distant hum of hinges and the flood of light beneath the door startled them both and they pulled apart. Greg blinked up at Mycroft, taking in the pink dusting his cheekbones, the dishevelment of his hair. He’d been sweating. He looked well kissed. A small furrow creased his brow, “That was only twenty-eight minutes.”

Greg bit down on his lip. “Terrible being rescued.”

Mycroft blushed further and the lock slid free, the door eased open by a well manicured hand. “Sir,” Anthea stood aside, holding the door open.

Cautiously, Mycroft righted himself and stood, offering a hand to help Greg up. He extracted his jacket from beneath the mess of papers and shook it out. “Anthea,” he said finally.

She glanced up from her mobile and held out a file. “You weren’t answering your phone.”

His smile looked more like a wince as he slid his arms into his jacket, “Sherlock.”

“Of course.”

“What’s this?” he took the file and she turned her attention back to her phone.

“Met file on the Hughes murder.” She headed out the office door. “Car is downstairs.”

Greg cracked his back and eyed the mess that had been his casefile press. “Think I can guilt Sherlock into cleaning this up?”

Mycroft blinked at him. “The file was never in the press?”

Greg grinned. “Nah.” He’d only suggested it to keep Mycroft on the back foot, maybe delay the handover, pretend he couldn’t find it in the press.

Mycroft took a moment to try to put himself in order. Smoothed his hair, straightened his shirt, pulled on his coat. “I believe I mentioned bull-headed.”

“Ah, c’mon. I had no idea Sherlock would just-”

“He meant that we shared the same sentiment,” Mycroft interrupted, collecting his umbrella. “I mistakenly thought he was speaking only of my weakness, but he was finding both of us tedious.”

Greg frowned. That went completely over his head. “What?”

“There is a car downstairs and a very pleasant bottle of Glen Scotia at home.”

“Ookay.”

“It would be better shared.” Mycroft raised a brow. “And the sofa in my sitting room is miles beyond the floor of a cupboard in terms of comfort.”

Greg felt the confusion melt off of his face, the beginning of a smile taking its place. “Oh.”

“We might resume the conversation when in private.”

Greg slipped his jacket on and adjusted his collar. “Even if I’m dressed like such a scoundrel?"

The corner of Mycroft’s mouth twitched. “Maybe because you are.”


End file.
